The five Amish girls who recently died in the Lancaster County school shooting were prepared for burial in the traditional way: Older women dressed them all in white — simple gowns sown by their mothers, white head coverings, veils, socks and aprons. The white pointed to the purity of heaven — to which the Amish believe that these "Innocents" belong. The white is also suggestive of the purity of hearts cleansed by forgiveness.

Just hours after the shooting the Amish were already reaching out to the non-Amish family of Charles Roberts IV, who had barricaded 10 girls aged 6-13 in their school house, tied them up in front of the blackboard and shot them, fatally wounding five before killing himself.

One Amish man went to the home of Roberts' parents and embraced his weeping father on the front porch, saying, "All has been forgiven." Members of the Amish community also invited Roberts' widow, Marie, to attend one of the girl's funerals, and many of the Amish were present at Roberts' burial. When aid began to pour into the community to help with medical bills, the Amish requested that a similar fund be established for Marie, who has three young children of her own to care for.

The Amish response to what many of them have called, "our 9/11" has been in turns inspiring and startling. Here are a few reflections:

Forgiveness is a Process

It was a little hard for me to understand how forgiveness could be offered so instantly. I wondered how it could be offered before the full implications of the shooting became clear, before the questions had time to surface and the rage had an opportunity for release.

But perhaps the willingness to forgive does not signify that the act is complete. It is more like a promise to initiate the hard work of beginning to forgive — a little bit like taking a wedding vow. When we promise to care for another person in sickness and health, we only know that we intend to keep our vows, but we cannot comprehend the weight of them or the way that their meaning will grow as the years wear on.

Within the Amish community, there is awareness that although forgiveness must be offered, the pain will linger for years. Daniel Esh, an Amish woodworker, reflecting on the glazed expressions on the faces of his grandnephews who narrowly escaped the shooting, said, "They're still in shock.... They'll heal, but it will affect them their whole lives."

The Mystery of the Other

What went wrong in the soul of Charles Roberts? Detectives and police are sifting through the suicide notes he left, as well as records from his last cell phone call and the evidence of his methodical planning for the schoolhouse siege. Those who knew him say that he was a loving father and there were no hints of what was to come.

For the Amish, part of forgiveness seems to be a willingness to accept that there are things about other people that we might never understand on this side of the grave. They know now that Roberts, who regularly stopped at their farms on his milk truck route, was a quietly sick man.

When one Amish couple attempted to explain the crime to their children — who asked why — the father, Ben, turned to the children and said, "Really the only way to answer this is to toss it in the Lord's lap and say, 'You take care of it, I can't.'"

His wife Mary added, "But you may ask Him to please carry us through."

Forgiveness Breaks the Cycle

Even as I struggled to understand how quickly the Amish could offer forgiveness, I could see that their response to the shooting can stop the cycle of events that Charles Roberts set into motion. From Robert's suicide notes it seems that he was tormented by bitterness. He expressed anger at God that his first child lived only 20 minutes. In a cell phone call to his wife, he told her that he was "getting even for something that happened 20 years ago."

We can't know what was on his mind that morning when he dropped his own children off at a school bus stop and headed for the Amish schoolhouse, but it is possible that his brutal act was at least partially seeded by bitterness. If the Amish chose to respond with rage and hatred, they could perpetuate this cycle. By choosing to forgive Roberts and to embrace his family, they made a decision to stop the insanity.

According to an article in the Charlotte Observer, the Amish were only able to offer forgiveness for this large transgression because they had been practicing it all their lives by peacefully resolving smaller transgressions. As the Grandfather of one of the girls prepared her body for burial, he encouraged the young boys around him to seek to forgive the man who had taken his granddaughter's life. "His words came naturally to him because they are the reflection of how he has lived over the course of a lifetime," wrote Gregory Jones in the Charlotte Observer. "They startle many of us who live in the midst of violence, who tend to harbor desires for vengeance, even if we do not act them out violently."

Ultimately, forgiveness is not a denial of wrongs committed, but a willingness to accept that there are things that we cannot undo or even understand. It a deeply humble act, as we offer up the work of executing justice to God. The Amish realize that it is not their job to carry bitterness to the grave. As a child psychologist friend of mine, Russell Carleton, said, "When you forgive someone, their act no longer defines your life."

Forgiveness Heals

Like many things that benefit our souls, forgiveness is also a balm for our bodies — just as bitterness wreaks havoc on them. Recent studies suggest that those who regularly forgive have lower levels of stress indicators — such as high blood pressure. Studies also suggest that those who forgive tend to experience a greater sense of control over their lives and more joy. According to a study by Kathleen Lawler, a psychology professor at the University of Tennessee, those who do not forgive tend have a weaker immune systems and more visits to the doctor than those who forgive.

In the Eastern Orthodox Church, Lent does not begin with ashes on the forehead, but with bended knees and foreheads pressed to the ground as every member of each parish asks for forgiveness — and offers forgiveness — to every other member of their church.

The day after Forgiveness Sunday, and the first day of Lent, is called "Clean Monday." It is the first day of the Lenten fast — no meat or dairy for 40 days — so that our bodies can be purged from excess. But it is also a day of clean hearts, permeated by quiet sense of joy because of the healing that began the day before in our parish communities.

As the mother of one of my mentors told him near the end of her life, "Always have a clean and forgiving heart." I'm beginning to understand that the two are one and the same.